CHAPTER EIGHT
Busy
I kept my suspicions to myself. It was plain the police were brushing it off and there was no sense pushing Fran's Defcon button up another notch.
I ducked over by the elevator and called Valerie. Around her 'oh my god!' on a repeated basis I got the story out. She told me 1) she'd take care of closing the store that night and 2) it was my solemn duty to take 'that poor girl' out and get her blasted out of her mind. Remembering Fran's lack of interest in drinking, I doubted that would happen. But chocolate might be another matter.
At the other side of the foyer I could hear Fran's quiet side of her phone call to her 'um, boss,' Cal. Oh, yeah. More than boss. For every 'nothing seems taken' and 'I don't know' were four or five 'I'm fines' and 'really, I'm fines.' Plus the glimpse I had of her face during one of her assurances showed the slightly ditzy look of a woman hard in love. (It's easy to recognize. I see it in my own mirror often enough.)
D.C. Metro crime unit joined us fairly soon; the investigators glanced in the room and gave each other disgusted looks. Hotels, even very well maintained ones like Millennia, have fingerprints all over the place. And our mystery woman had tossed the room like a hurricane. Only the fridge appeared to be spared—and maybe the bathrooms. She had even pulled the pots and pans from the kitchen and dumped them on the floor. They asked Fran to carefully walk the room (not touching anything, even though her fingerprints were already there) and see if she could notice anything missing off the bat. Her laptop was sitting on the desk in plain view and she was pretty sure nothing was missing (she blushed and actually hid behind me when they moved her clothes around to check beneath the suitcase and her underwear was exposed).
The officers let Fran put her lunch away, but we were then escorted back out to the graciously appointed holding pen by the elevator to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I pulled out a deck of cards from an inside pocket in my purse and we played Gin Rummy until we were sick of it. Then we played War. (It was the first time in my entire life I've ever finished a game of War. Like Monopoly, I thought it was something you played until you couldn't stand it any more, that nobody ever really finished the game.) Then, in desperation, we played Crazy Eights and Go Fish. (Two-handed poker just doesn't work—and neither of us knew how to play Hearts.)
About the time I was wondering if Ducky would beat me home, the police let us back in. Jafi gave Fran a card for the victim's assistance program; Mack gave me a sheet of handy tips on cleaning up after the CSU and a couple of referral numbers for companies that specialize in crime scene cleanups. (I never knew there was such an animal. Must make for interesting introductions. "Matt, Julie, this is Jim and Sally. Sally teaches junior high math and Jim cleans up crime scenes for a living." Stop a conversation cold. Or start one, with the right crowd.)
Mrs. Islington had stayed through the entire ordeal. (Mr. Rubio had been called away after only a half hour, never to return.) Fran took in the destruction of the room—first the trash-n-toss, then the liberal dusting of fingerprint powder and god knows what else—and tears welled in her big brown eyes. Mrs. Islington broke her composure a hair and gave her a motherly smile and pat on the arm. "I'll have housekeeping right up. They can take care of the actual cleaning while you—put your world back in order."
Fran nodded dumbly while she walked very slowly into the room. Mrs. Islington melted into the background and I followed Fran into the still chic (if an unholy mess) suite.
Suddenly Fran hugged herself hard. "I—I don't want to wear any of this ever again!" she burst out. She half-sat half-fell onto the couch and began to cry, great gulping, shaking sobs.
Oh, crap. Oh, crap. I know Evelyn has her plate full (and then some), but I really, really wanted her there with me. She's the best when it comes to comforting and consoling and, when the time is right, kicking your ass back in gear. Me? It's like I told Fran the other day, come to me with a broken leg and I'll tell you to walk it off. I sat next to Fran and hesitantly patted her back. She turned and fell onto my shoulder, weeping like crazy.
Now I was really worried. (I wanted to call Ducky and suggest we switch places.) What now?
I continued to pat her back and occasionally mumble, "It'll be okay" while I tried to pull up some sympathetic scenes out of books or movies. (It was probably the pictures we had looked at during lunch, but all I could think of was Melanie from GWTW. She was just a little too goody-goody for me to pull off, so I stuck with, "It'll be okay" and hoped to hell Fran would pull herself together.)
"I know that's—that's s-stupid," she sniffled. "Isn't it?" I murmured a noise that could either be assent or disagreement—whichever she wanted. "But—but it's like they're—tainted. Likethey're—they're dirty." Another mm-mmm noise. "But that's going to—cost me a fortune!" Hiccough-sob. "And—and that's like she's gotten me twice!"
"Uh-huh."
She sat up, eye blazing. "Well—well, screw her!" I didn't laugh, but I had to wonder how many times she'd said anything so vehement before.
"Nah. Un-screw her." Fran looked at me in confusion. "She's not worth screwing. Take one away."
She gasped and clamped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. A tiny snicker escaped. Then another. Then a louder one, then a giggle, then we were hanging on to each other, laughing hysterically. "Oh—my—god—" she finally got out. "If Ducky had been my father that would have sort of made you my stepmother and you would be such a cool stepmother even though you'd really just be more like an older sister a really cool older sister." She stopped and frowned. "Did that make any sense?"
"Yeah. It did." I smiled. "And thanks for the compliment."
She let out a sigh then gave me a rueful smile. "Thank you."
I shrugged lightly. "I didn't do anything."
"You listened." Her smile softened. "And you made me laugh."
Hey. Whatever works. There was a soft knock on the open door. We looked around in synch to see Araceli and two of her coworkers waiting in the doorway. I waved them in. "Come on in and join the party."
Millennia probably had classes in deportment and decorum for any member of the staff who might come in contact with the public, because not one of the three women so much as flicked an eyebrow. But they silently, politely entered the room and began detailing the rooms from the second bathroom on the far east and the bedroom on the far west working their way toward the middle sitting room.
Fran and I made like a white tornado, bagging all of her clothing to go down to the laundry (she was setting a new high for the 'complimentary laundry and dry cleaning' noted on the amenities card). Mrs. Islington had called up to remind Fran of this service and promised everything would be a rush job and back by 9 p.m. While Araceli's coworkers handled the hotel property she helped me remove the dusting powder and residue from Fran's personal items while Fran tried to put her papers and such back in some semblance of order.
The five of us made a great team. By 7:00 the place looked good enough for a photo op. Suzy Bailey had sent me a text message around 5:00 asking how things were going. (It hadn't occurred to me to call, but Ducky had, bless him.) I responded "not bad" and followed with "?" to her ETA query. She popped back that she was going to take Victoria to dinner at a particular Mexican restaurant Victoria loves but Ducky loathes—special treat. CompanionAbles needs to give her a raise. Or maybe Ducky can just adopt her.
I was right in my earlier assessment; Fran had no interest in getting bombed out of her mind. She thanked me profusely for my help and support, hugged me at least a dozen times and sent me on my way. I stopped at the gift store across the way, threw chocolate (lots of chocolate), tea bags, a cute mug and a Maxine cartoon book into a basket and took it back to the hotel. I scrawled What tea and chocolate won't cure, Maxine will put into perspective on the note card and tore out of town.
Only the dogs were there when I got home. They tried to convince me they were starrrrrving, wasting away to skin and bones. Doesn't work when Foot pulls that look on me; didn't work this time, either, despite four times the sad, pathetic look. Especially when I saw two empty dog food cans on the top of the trash.
The idea of cooking dinner was incredibly unappealing. (The idea of food, period, was unappealing. Nothing like the scent of Liver De-light wafting from the bin to make your stomach flip. I frequently hold my breath when I feed Foot. Pee-ew. And the worse it smells, the more they like it.)
The front door opened and I heard some shuffling noises in the hall. But instead of Suzy and Victoria, Ducky dragged into the kitchen looking like one of his customers. He looked around the kitchen, slightly confused.
"They're still out."
He glanced at the clock above the sink. "They've been gone over three hours." He closed his eyes briefly. "I'm almost afraid to ask."
"What do you want to do about dinner? I just got here, myself."
"At this hour and as tired as I feel—and as tired as you look—I'm thinking small, simple and light."
"How about breakfast? Toast and scrambled eggs with cheese?"
"I'll cut up some ham to add in," he offered.
"Sold."
While we whipped up dinner, I gave him a quick rundown of what happened at the hotel after he left. He heartily approved of my gift basket and we both agreed we needed to keep in touch with Fran before she left. Close touch.
"So, they didn't seem impressed by the resemblance between the woman who shot Lily and the woman the maid saw?" I shook my head. "I mentioned the incident to Jethro; his opinion of the situation is quite different." He looked at me seriously. "He is not a big believer in coincidence."
The phone rang; I proved how lazy I was by leaning my chair back and reaching for the receiver. (I also proved how stupid that was when the legs skittered on the floor and I almost landed in a heap.) "Mal—lard residence," I gasped as the chair settled hard on the floor.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes?"
"It's Suzy. I didn't want you or Dr. Mallard to worry; this is the first chance I've had to call. They were holding a plant sale in the parking lot, sponsored by the horticulture department of the community college, and, well—Victoria will be quite busy all this weekend."
"Good thing her garden elf will be here."
"We'll be home in about twenty minutes."
"I'll help you unload when you get home."
"Whoops! Gotta go!"
I could only imagine, having gone out with Victoria many times, just what caused the quick sign off. "Mother has been shopping," I said, hanging up the phone.
He grabbed the edge of the table and looked at me with furrowed brow. "I'm ready. Break it to me… gently." I knew he was teasing.
"Plants and sundry growing things."
"So long as they're legal," he sighed. Before I could ask him to elaborate, his cell phone rang. "It never rains but it pours," he said with a quirked eyebrow. "Jethro, good evening, are you still at the Yard?" He listened a moment and the smile faded. "Where?" Another pause. "I agree. Thank you."
I waited patiently… for about ten seconds. "What's up?"
"The police recovered the Oldsmobile. It was found, abandoned, in a parking garage…" His eyes locked with mine. "At the Millennia Hotel."
"Interesting coincidence," I noted wryly.
"As I said, Jethro doesn't believe in coincidence. In this instance—I definitely do not, either."
Makes three of us.
/ / /
As the old saw goes, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade." Me, I'm more of a Paula Deen lemon cake girl. Or at least lemon meringue pie.
Conversely, if life hands you a bowl of cherries… whether you make jam, pie or homemade cherry-vanilla ice cream—remember to say thank you to whoever or whatever you believe sent that bowl your way. I don't care if it's a god, goddess, universal balance, karma or your long-dead Great-great Auntie Gertrude—say "thank you." Or you may not get another serving.
Whatever fickle finger of fate pushed me into the Salty Dog the same night Ducky happened to be there, I don't know. And I really don't care. I rotate my thank you list to cover everyone (or everything) out there, just in case. Because who (or whatever) nudged us into the same bubble of space did me the biggest favor imaginable. And I will forever be appropriately grateful.
People make love for a lot of different reasons. You fought and made up and tumble into bed together. You had a great day and you're celebrating. You had a normal, everyday kind of day going to work and taking care of the kids and washing the dog and dealing with her family and fending off his college buddy who called to hint at staying in the guest room for a weekend (and last time it turned into four months) and this, that and the other thing—and you catch his smile across the room or hear her laugh down the hall, and, damn, you fall crazy in love all over again. Whatever the start, you have two human beings together in a comfortable, safe place holding each other and keeping the rest of the world at bay. Okay, sometimes it gets routine—and if it does and you don't want it to be, hey, don't blame me. We have a decent selection of reference and how-to books in the store. Take a step. Be daring.
Ducky and I have yet to fall under "routine." And I can't imagine that we ever will. I'm not saying every time is a swing-from-the-chandelier-dress-like-Tarzan-and-Jane-multiple-encounters-in-one-night time. But quiet, gentle, slow and relaxed can be just as satisfying. It sure was that night. It wasn't a case of fight and make up or celebration or the thunderbolt from the gods that makes you fall in love all over again. Maybe it was our way of whistling in the wind, chasing away the demons that seemed to be prowling closer and closer every day.
And it did work. Of a fashion. With every kiss, every touch, every sigh the blackness of the weeks disappeared until finally we lay spooned together, Ducky's arms around me growing loose and relaxed as he fell more deeply asleep.
I, on the other hand, was wide awake.
There was a light wind in the night air, gently tossing the branches of the tree outside. The streetlamp poked through on every move, sending playful shadows on the far wall. Muted by the window sheers, they were kind of hypnotic… but not sleep inducing. After about a half an hour of watching the light ballet on the wall—and once Ducky had moved around enough that I could slip out without disturbing him—I went downstairs to find something that might lull me to sleep.
It wasn't quite the weather for it, but I made a big mug of hot chocolate, popped some oatmeal raisin cookies on a plate and curled into the corner of the sofa. With the TV volume on low (Victoria would never hear it, but Radar Mallard upstairs might), I surfed through the channels. (It's amazing. Back when it was just the Big Three, there was so much more to choose from. We'd actually squabble over what to watch. Ducky and I have about 300 channels on each of our cable systems—slightly different packages, but about the same number total—and at least half the time it's mostly crap. Sci-Fi, Food Network, USA and Turner Movies are my fallbacks; if Lynx ever drops them from my lineup, I'm canceling my service.)
God bless Turner Movies. Robert Osborne, j'adore. What Alton Brown is to trivial cooking facts, Robert Osborne is to film. (I wouldn't be surprised to find Tony DiNozzo the head of his fan club.) The theme of the month was film noir; he was winding up his comments on the ultimate classic of noir, The Maltese Falcon (set to air Saturday night) and commenting on some of the femme fatales of the genre: Stanwyck, Bacall, Lake— "And a personal favorite of mine, Maxine Arthur—" I grinned. Yea, Auntie Max! "—who will be showcased this Sunday on the anniversary of her death—" My grin dropped and my shoulders actually slumped.
Damn.
It wasn't just for Fran—a hope that she could coax information from 'Auntie Max'—but she sounded like such a cool person. I was kind of hoping Ducky might want to take a mini-vacation to California and visit her.
"Arthur's usual role was a tough gal on the fringes of the activity. Sassy, brassy, sometimes scandalous, her real life was almost as complex as one of her films." The screen showed a shot of Maxine in her heyday, looking kind of like a platinum Veronica Lake. "She made quite a name for herself playing intelligent women in control of their lives. Interesting to note that her favorite movie was the only one without her trademark platinum blond hair. She played the female lead in Silent Partners, opposite Cary Grant and Randall Carson. As the power behind the throne of an international crime family, her performance has been compared to Angela Lansbury in The Manchurian Candidate." The screen changed to a black and white picture of Maxine and the marvelous Mr. Grant, Maxine looking at him with a bemused look and poor Cary looking like ten miles of really bad road. "It was on Silent Partners that Arthur met her first of four husbands—"
I stopped listening. I leaned forward, staring at the screen.
I must be getting punchy. I'm hallucinating the craziest things.
I carefully set my mug on the floor and padded over to Ducky's desk. No—not his computer… just in case. I pulled my laptop case from beside the desk and dragged it back to the couch. With The Postman Always Rings Twice playing in the background, I plugged it in and fired it up, absently watching the screen go from black to blue to wallpaper (Edvard Munch's The Scream; it's too apropos too many times). Still feeling somewhat detached, I typed in the IMDb address, then Maxine Arthur in the search box. I clicked from page to page, person to person, from one website to another, finding some really obscure bits of information along the way, until I was back at my original page. I set the computer on the coffee table and fetched my purse from the coat rack in the hall; Fran's box of photos was still in there. With the fan of the laptop humming softly, I quickly sorted the stack of photos into piles. Pictures of Marielle's artwork. Pictures of Marielle's drawings of Fran. Pictures of Marielle. Pictures of Fran. Group pictures. Pictures from before Marielle's move to California. And pictures of when she had lived in Santa Monica.
The last pile wasn't large. But having looked at Ducky's albums the past week, I knew every picture in them by heart—and none of these pictures were in there. Yes, it was mostly the same people—Marielle, Ducky, Maxine, many of the other tenants. But here and there would be a strange face, a new young man or woman added into the mix.
I stared at one particular young man—dark hair bleached lighter by the sun and surf, his gaze intense. Even though he was at the far edge of the crowd in the few pictures I found him in, I knew he had eyes like bittersweet chocolate.
Just like Fran's.
Well. That answers a couple of questions.
And raises even more.
/ / /
Amazingly enough, I slept like a rock when I went back upstairs. My mind was still reeling; I really should have been pacing the floor all night. (Hell, pacing the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling and down the other side.) But shock sometimes brings calm in its' wake. Maybe it's a matter of overload: I can't take any more; I'm going to shut down. So I closed down the computer and put it away, turned off the TV, straightened the couch pillows, cleaned up my snack, patted Izzy (who had crept in and sat near me, staring quizzically as I wandered the web) and went back upstairs. I slipped back into bed; Ducky rolled over and cuddled me close, never waking. The digital clock read 12:59; I never saw it hit 1:00.
Morning was a gloriously slow wakeup. We were both awake almost an hour before the alarm, and found a jim-dandy way to occupy ourselves for that time—forty-five minutes of it, anyway. I didn't want to lose even one minute before reveille and snuggled against Ducky's side, my head resting on his chest. My mind wandered in odd directions. "I just realized," I said. "We've never fought."
"That certainly wasn't fighting," he laughed.
"Not by a long shot. But it just dawned on me. We've never fought. We've had some minor disagreements, a couple of snarky moments… but the only thing I'd consider a squabble is where we're going to live after we get married."
"Let's both retire, throw a dart at a map and move there."
"Fat chance. We'd end up in Broken Moosejaw, Oklahoma."
"Is there such a place?"
"Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts?"
"That, I recognize. Lovely place."
"Spotsylvania?"
"Lake Wobegon?"
"Where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average." I did a fair Garrison Keillor imitation.
"I have a sudden desire for powdermilk biscuits."
"It's powdermilk biscuits you desire…?"
The arm draped around my back pulled me closer. "Among other things."
I kissed the tip of his chin. "Glad I made the cut."
"Top o' the list."
"So—where are we going to live?"
He twisted around slightly and looked in my eyes. "Must we discuss this now?" he said plaintively.
"Nah. Plenty of time for squabbling later."
"Oh, I hope not." He gave me a sad look when I smacked the alarm just as it started to hum and slithered out of bed. "Come back?"
"So much for your Protestant work ethic, Dr. Mallard," I said archly. "Today is a work day."
"I'm only human," he said with a dramatic sigh. He tossed back the covers. "Would you like the shower first?"
"I'll use the other bathroom. I have to wash my hair; don't want you dying from boredom." The bath in the master suite is much nicer and roomier, but the second bath is quite useable.
"I appreciate the consideration," he said with an easy grin. "You know," he continued, grabbing his robe from the foot of the bed, "I thought you'd say our only real fight was over my refusal to tell Francesca her father's name."
Good thing he was facing the other way. The flame on my cheeks would have been a dead giveaway. "Well, since you brought it up—"
"No," he said pleasantly. He dropped a kiss to the point of my shoulder in passing.
I thought about it—what I was calling Fran's Dilemma—all during my shower. I had the answer (well, I was pretty sure I had the answer) but I was a little, well, squeamish about going behind Ducky's back and telling her. I'd already distressed him by not coming to him when I first got wind of the family tree; if I went off on a tangent, half-cocked, I'd send him into orbit. I've heard tales that, when properly riled, he has one hell of a temper. Frankly, I'd rather as not see it firsthand.
I skipped down to the kitchen, wet hair bouncing against my back. To my surprise, Victoria was alone in the kitchen, happily dipping toast fingers in egg yolk and feeding them to the dogs.
"Mother, breakfast is for you, not Tyson."
"But, he's hungry!"
"No, he's not. He's overfed. You need that breakfast more than he does." I looked around. "Where's Donald?"
She mimicked my glance. "I have no idea."
I gave her a severe finger wag as I left the kitchen. "You eat that breakfast. Not the dogs. Understood?"
She pouted, but nodded. As I walked out the door, I heard a mournful, "Cassandra says no…" behind me. Good. At least she was listening—this time.
"Oh, there you are." Ducky was standing next to the coffee table. "What are—" I broke off when he looked up.
Hurt.
Disappointed.
The same look when I'd told him that, yes, I knew about Fran before she showed up on our doorstep.
Oh, crap.
"What's wrong?" I managed.
"Why were you looking through the box of photographs last night?" he asked quietly. Damn; I thought I'd put everything back in order.
Straightforward question. Straightforward answer. "I couldn't sleep. I came downstairs to watch TV for a while. TCM was talking about their month long special and mentioned Sunday was a tribute to Maxine Arthur. She—she passed away a year ago." Ducky sighed at that. "They showed a picture of her, one movie she did without her bleach job and—" Now I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. "The picture, it—it looked just like Fran. Just. Like. Fran. So I—I looked around on the internet, I looked at the pictures—" I'm sure I looked as guilty as I felt. "Maxine—Maxine was Fran's grandmother, wasn't she?"
Ducky was silent for a long moment. Then he let out a long, slow breath and nodded. "Yes. Yes, she was." His voice was barely audible.
I nodded. Yeah… the look in her eyes when she held Fran was just like Victoria's when she was with Charlie. The undying adoration only a grandmother has. I reached over and plucked the top picture from the pile. "Her father?" I held my breath.
Ducky nodded slowly. He wouldn't tell me—but confirming a guess was something else. "Does he know?" I continued.
"I don't know," he sighed. "He—he wasn't there when I came back to California. I didn't press Marielle for the details even though—well, there was only one man it could have been." He sat down heavily. "He was… very charismatic. Particularly with young women."
I sat down next to him, one leg tucked under. "So is Fran—" I looked for a delicate way to put it. "Does she have… brothers and sisters?"
He shook his head. "Not that I know of."
"What harm would there be in telling Fran? I don't know about her father, but she'd be thrilled to find out 'Auntie Max' had been her grandmother." I stopped short. "Her father—is he married? Do you know?"
He looked at me oddly. "Yes."
"Does he have other children? Is that why you—"
Ducky shook his head again. "No. As I said—not that I've heard."
Not that he had heard. Hmm. To me, that sounds like he's a 'name.' 'In the business,' as it were. Given that his mother was Maxine Arthur and his dad—well, stepdad—was Paul Cameron (whose credit list is longer than a greedy kid's Christmas wish list), it was not unlikely that he was in the film industry.
"Fran has a whopping inheritance waiting for her. It's not fair to deny her that, if nothing else."
He gave me a sharp look. "How do you know that?"
"It's amazing what you can find on the internet. Maxine's will was probated very quickly, almost a year ago; everything is in trust. The L.A. Times had an article on her death; she left almost everything to, quote, 'my grandchild-slash-ren' end quote. She made note that her only child, Francis, had already received his inheritance while she was alive, and everything else except for a few bequests goes to the unnamed grandchild-slash-ren. And that her attorney had private papers regarding said grandchild-slash-ren. Maxine owned a good deal of real estate. Bought back when it was dirt cheap, I'm sure. And then there are stocks, bonds… It's worth quite a bit. Three numbers before the first comma." My theory that Fran and Lily had been mistaken for each other was making a lot more sense. Almost seven hundred fifty million is a good reason to kill someone. "It's all in trust. Waiting for Maxine's grandchild to step forward."
He actually looked guilty.
"She didn't spell out Fran's name…"
He shook his head. "She didn't need to. Marielle had no problem acknowledging Maxine—in private, anyway. Outside…" He shrugged. "The only people who knew who Francesca's father was were the three of us—and, one might presume, the young man in question."
"Though you're not sure."
He shook his head.
"So. Francis. Frank? He's in the business, right?"
He tipped his head and looked at me speculatively. "Yes."
Frank Arthur. Francis Arthur. Neither one had pulled up on IMDb—well, not anyone that looked likely, anyway. "Does he go by another name or something?" I asked in desperation. Ducky dropped his gaze. "Ducky—"
"Cassandra, please!" It was an anguished groan—with a small snap overlay.
I knew he was under a hell of an emotional load. Overload, even. So I didn't snark back in kind. While he wrestled with his soul, I tried to remember what I'd read on Maxine's IMDb page. Four husbands; five marriages. Number 2 was repeated as 5. Marriage number one was a record breaker. Longer than Brittany Spears and Jason Alexander (longer than Cher and Gregg Allman, even), they made it almost a month before getting a quickie Mexican divorce. There was speculation that the marriage was a sham, a 'beard'—bolstered by Randy Carson's tell-all bio in the 80s—but something happened at least once, because two months later Maxine was running around in maternity tops. Randy (aptly named) stepped up to the plate; they remarried (so technically it was four husbands, six marriages), resumed screaming matches in Beverly Hills—and two weeks after Francis was born, they re-divorced and never crossed paths again (not even during his book tour and big interview on Phil Donahue). About a year and a half later, she married husband number two (and five), Paul Cameron. They made it a little over sixteen years before very quietly splitting up. Husband number three was a tragedy; they were only married two weeks when he died of a heart attack on the golf course. She had bad luck with her next husband, as well—he was in some branch of the military and died in a training exercise off San Diego barely a month later. Paul Cameron showed up to offer condolences at the funeral; something rekindled and they ended up back together again—and were together to the end; he died in his sleep at the relatively young age of 81. (He was a good deal older than Maxine.) She was truly broken-hearted over the loss and never looked at another man for the rest of her life. Despite their three-year hiatus, as it were, he had been the real love of her life, a great husband and stepfather.
Stepfather.
Hmm.
I picked up a picture of Marielle and Ducky laughing over the birthday cake of another tenant (the cake was covered in candles; it had to be one of the much elder residents); in the background, Maxine was having a discussion with Frank; she looked serious, he looked like he was blowing her off.
Stepfather.
Paul Cameron.
I squinted at the picture. Frank was in the shadows; it gave a darker cast to his hair and made him look older than his thirty-some years. Older—
-and more familiar.
But… Frank Cameron still rang zero bells.
I wracked my brain. Okay. Paul Cameron. Before him, Edward Dallas. (Dallas? No. Travis? Austin? Some Texas town. Oh, yeah. Gorman.) Colonel Edward Gorman. Before that— I closed my eyes. He was a musician or something. Something about soundtracks. Not Jerry Goldsmith. Not Gil Melle. Not John Williams. Al… Al…bert. Albert. Albert Diaz. Then Paul Cameron, the first time. And what was probably a studio-arranged marriage to her Silent Partners co-star—
"Oh, my god."
Ducky slowly raised his pained face to my shocked one.
"You loved Marielle like a sister. Any big brother would hate the man who got his sister—'in the family way.'" (I quickly edited out 'knocked up.') "Cameron Carson." The names of his father and stepfather. Ducky actually sagged a little. I shook my head slowly. "I don't blame you one bit."
He looked absolutely miserable. I leaned over and gathered him into a hug. "Oh, Cassandra…" He held on tightly.
"I'm so sorry, sweetie. I didn't mean to hurt you. Really, I didn't."
"I'm not hurt." He sighed heavily. "I suppose, at this juncture… telling Francesca the truth is the best idea."
Oh, thank heavens. I really didn't want to go behind his back. But I didn't think I'd be able to stop myself. "If Cameron Carson is Fran's father," I said slowly, "why would he try to hurt her? I'm assuming there was a mistake, confusing Lily and Fran at first. Why would CC—"
Ducky looked almost pained. "I assure you. The woman I met was a woman. Not a man in drag."
I laughed slightly. "I never through you'd make a mistake like that. But—it could have been a friend. Or his agent? I dunno… but he's worth a gazillion dollars. What Maxine left is a fortune to a normal mortal, but CC has made the Forbes list every year since 1980. I don't see him risking the jail time killing Fran. Hell, risking the publicity. He's still smoothing waters from his latest stint in rehab."
"Or…" Ducky looked aghast. "Avoiding publicity? If it were known he had a child out of wedlock back then—"
Shades of Susan Smith. I felt acutely ill. "Wait." I sat up sharply. "His big speech out of rehab." I could hear it, clear as a bell. "'I have a new need, a new resolve… I want to thank my fans, my family—'" I looked at Ducky, dead serious. "He was an only child. His mother is dead. His father is dead. The stepfather who raised him is dead. Other than his wife—what family?"
"Francesca," Ducky said slowly.
"So… he knows," I said in a similar tone. "Maybe he didn't before—but he does, now."
"He didn't sound negative." Ducky cocked his head. "Quite the contrary. He sounded almost… ebullient."
"I'm back to thinking his agent is behind this. The old adage, 'any publicity is good publicity' is not necessarily true. If CC's popularity drops—well, ten per cent of nothing is nothing."
Ducky has seen some pretty ugly things in his career—but this one rocked even him. "People have killed for myriad reasons. While I cannot condone the action, in some cases I can at least comprehend what drove them to the deed. And some people, well, for no reason."
"Evil is as evil does." Thank you, Forrest Gump.
"Exactly. But this?" He sat and just shook his head over and over for a minute. After a heavy sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed a programmed number and waited. "Penthouse West, please." I drew in a shaky breath. "Francesca, my dear, good morning. It's Ducky. I hope I didn't wake you?" Pause. "Do you have plans for the day? We were wondering if you'd like to meet for lunch again. Or perhaps join us for dinner?" Longer listening pause. "Oh, well I'm very glad I called! We'd be happy to pick you up." More listening, his face growing graver as time ticked by. "Oh… oh, my dear, I am so sorry."
I swallowed hard. Oh, shit, now what? I tried not to think of the possibilities.
Ducky continued to listen. "Who? Do they have a name?" Pause. Visible flinch. "Ah. Yes. Well…" Long pause. "Most curious…"
I hate one-sided conversations. You can imagine all sorts of things on the other end of the line.
"No, that would be fine. And this time, it's my treat," he said firmly. "Of course it's no trouble! We'll see you then, my dear."
I refrained from attacking him, yelling, 'what, what?' and contented myself with a curious look. A very curious look.
"Francesca's father called last night. He's been out of town most of the time she's been gone, working on a film. The first thing he did upon returning home, he went out to see Marielle." He sighed heavily. "She has…become more withdrawn."
More? I didn't think that was possible—short of full-blown catatonia.
"She stopped painting, stopped drawing. She just sits and stares at the pictures of Francesca, huddled over them as though to protect them."
"Like when she was drawing them originally." He nodded. "Like… she's hiding her, keeping her secret." Another nod. I wanted to cry. Or be sick.
"She had had two visitors who apparently sparked this spiral. The first was just over a month ago, a celebrity who caused quite a stir and visited because he had heard from a mutual friend that someone he worked with long ago was ill," he said in a mildly mocking tone.
"Let me guess. CC?" I asked with a slight snort.
"The very same. The second was a woman, about two weeks ago. A very attractive redhead who claimed to be Marielle's half-sister who had lost touch for all these years."
"And Marielle doesn't have a half-sister." It wasn't a question.
"Only child. And during the time I knew Marielle, I never heard a hint of a sibling born on the wrong side of the blanket. Francesca sounded quite dubious, especially when her father told her the name of this alleged half-sister." He gave me a dour look. "Maxine Arthur."
"Cute," I muttered.
"Since her 'sister' visited, she hides in the corner of her room, wrapped around those tiny bits of paper. She has to be forcibly dragged out to eat or bathe…"
Now I was getting pissed. "Who the hell was this woman? For real? And what did she say to Marielle?" I flipped my hand. "Of course," I scoffed, answering my own question. "She threatened Fran. Or said something Marielle took as a threat. 'Sis' is the fruitloop who shot Lily and ransacked Fran's room, I'll bet my socks."
"No argument from my quarter."
"Ducky… would you feel comfortable calling Fran's dad? I just have this hinky feeling… maybe he might know something that he didn't tell Fran, or something she didn't think to mention to you, that might link the three women together."
"I agree—however…" He frowned. "I'm not… sanguine… with calling Mr. Peterson."
Can't blame him, really. "Well," I said slowly, "does he know about what happened to Fran yesterday?" (It was only yesterday? Holy shit.)
"I believe so."
"Maybe… you could get Gibbs to call? I mean, NCIS is in charge of Lily's shooting—because they thought the shooter was coming after you. And you said Gibbs noticed the 'coincidence' between Fran's smash-and-grab and Lily's attack," I said hopefully.
"True…" Ducky was nodding, mulling it over. "And Jethro is rather skilled at getting people to remember details."
Boy, is he.
"I will… forward that suggestion." He leaned over and gave me a kiss. "Could you pick us both up for lunch? Francesca is going back to Los Angeles a few days early and is turning back her rental car after her appointment this morning, but expressed great interest in lunch at the Hippy Gypsy."
"Sure. I can pick you up, then get Fran at the rental agency—or vice versa. Does she need a ride to the airport?"
He looked so grateful I almost cried. "I didn't think to ask."
"I will. You head off to work—" I draped my arms around his neck. "—and I will call you after I talk to Fran. Okay?"
"You… have been pretty marvelous about all of this." I was startled; he'd been less than pleased a number of times of late, and with pretty good reason. "This was a lot for anyone to deal with. You were blindsided—but you rallied wonderfully." He reached up to cup my cheek. "You have such a warm heart. I'm not surprised to see you defending Francesca. And… while I couldn't agree with what you asked of me—I could understand how you felt."
Even though it was only the two of us, I was acutely embarrassed. I felt like he was praising me far too highly. "I like her," I managed. "I feel sorry for her—but I like her, too." It was true. Once I, well, once I felt she was no longer a threat, I could view her as just another person on the planet. She's intelligent, talented, well-read, funny, and just a little bit of a social misfit. (Sound like anyone you know?)
"I'm glad. I think… she can use all the friends she can get," he sighed.
Aye-men.
Ducky threw his briefcase and laptop and, well, everything into the Morgan's boot and tore off down the street (good thing Victoria didn't see him, she would have had a fit); he was about an hour late, I realized guiltily. He had meant to get up at six to catch up on some paperwork, and we had left the alarm set for 7:15. Oops.
I kept Victoria company until Suzy arrived not much later. I reassured her that Charlie would be there that weekend, and probably Lily (and Evvie), too. That left her in a cheerful enough mood that I was able to leave for work without her asking to tag along to the store. I don't mind her being there, but between meeting Fran for lunch and the fact that we were without Geoff for the day it would have been less than ideal.
As I drove into the city, I called Fran. "Hope I'm not disturbing your breakfast—"
"Nah, I've been up since about five."
"That's, like, what? Two L.A. time?"
"Yeah. I usually get up around five, so I was screwed up the first couple of days. When I get back home, I'll be getting up at one or two until I re-acclimate."
"So. Let's nail down the game plan. When do you have to get the car back?"
"Not until six. But I figured it would be easier to take it back at noon and then just take the shuttle from the hotel to the airport. My flight isn't until nine, so I'll get some reading done tonight. I land about midnight L.A. time." I could hear the 'ugh' in her voice. "I rescheduled my appointment for this morning—I was going to leave in about ten minutes."
"How about this. I meet you at Pegasus, you turn back the car, I pick you up, we go pick up Ducky and go to lunch, then I can take you to the airport on the way home. You have to be there at, what, seven?"
"Well, yes—but, Cassandra, that's so far out of your way! And the time—"
"Nonsense," I said briskly. "You said you wanted to see the store, right?"
"Well, yes—"
"Here's your chance. What time should I meet you there?"
"Actually—I can drop it off in town and take the Metro back to the hotel. That would be easier for you, yes?"
"You sure it wouldn't be more of a hassle for you?"
"Please. I ride RTD and what we laughingly have as a subway all the time."
I shivered. "You saw Volcano, right?"
"Cassandra… it's make believe," she teased.
"Tell Tommy Lee Jones. So… pick you up at noon? Half past? Will that be enough time for your appointment and to get back?"
"Half past is perfect. That's plenty of time. This is so sweet of you!"
"Totally selfish. We love showing off our local restaurants."
Agreeing that I'd call her when a few minutes away from the hotel and meet her upstairs, I rang off and pushed the accelerator down a little further.
/ / /
By the time I arrived, there was a message on my cell from Ducky letting me know that his schedule was going to be scrambled that morning; a deposition scheduled for the next week was being moved to today, but they should be done by one at the latest. I texted back that that would work perfectly; pick up Fran at 12:30, Ducky at 1:00, lunch, drop him back at work, then play at the store until about six. He was willing to excuse my absence at dinner given that I was driving Fran to the airport. I shot back that I was working on a Girl Scout badge.
I blitzed the rest of the online listings from Pippa's store (believe it or not, I actually do do some work at the store) and felt pretty darn satisfied by the time noon rolled around. I was pleasantly surprised (nay, shocked) to get a call from Lily who sounded disgustingly alert and chipper. "How the hell are you?"
"Great," she responded. "Well, relatively speaking."
"Lily, I think I hate your guts. I had my wisdom teeth out and thought I was at death's door. You sound like you just went out for a pedicure!"
"I've got a high pain threshold," she said apologetically. "Listen, I'm on my way to a parent-teacher conference—"
"They do that for summer school?" I almost gasped. That's just mean.
"Heck, yeah. So. I was calling for a couple of reasons. We're still on for the weekend, yes?"
"I sure hope so. I already told Victoria we are. And she has a crapload of things to plant. Although I'm wondering if I may have to cry off—I just got caught up on the online listings and I'm way behind on a lot of stuff around here…"
"Hey, we'd be happy to stay for the weekend so you and Ducky can have some alone time," she teased.
I though back on this morning (and last night) and blushed. "We do quite fine for alone time, thank you very kindly," I said loftily.
She giggled. "Good. Now, second thing on my 'bug Sandy' list is… have you heard anything about the case? I know Agent Gibbs said to call, but I figure they're probably crazy busy and since you have an 'in' at the office…"
"Believe me, if Gibbs is too busy to talk, he'll tell you. But I'm not a hundred per cent sure what's going on—but there's a good suspicion—" I took a deep breath. "We think that you were shot by someone going after Fran." 'We.' Yeah.
There was a long silence. "Someone—someone was trying to kill Ducky's daughter?" she finally managed. I bit back a gasp. "Oh, sorry. I—I still think of her as Ducky's daughter, even though I know she isn't. But—someone is trying to kill her? Good god, why?"
"It… has to do with who her real father is. And an inheritance. Ducky—Ducky's going to tell her the truth, who her father is. As soon as he's done that—if Fran says it's okay, I'll give you the details."
"I understand," she said quietly. "But—how did they figure out that someone mistook me for her?"
"Well… yesterday someone snuck into her hotel room and totally trashed the place. Looking for something. And the description of the woman that the maid saw sounds a lot like the woman who shot you."
She made a little hissing noise. "God, I actually just got chills."
"And the car was found abandoned—in the parking lot at Fran's hotel."
"Oh, my god, why don't they have that girl in protective custody or something?"
"Well, DC Metro doesn't think there's a link. And while your case is still in NCIS's jurisdiction—sort of—Fran's isn't. There's only so much they can do, I guess. But the good news, is, she's heading back to L.A. early. Tonight."
"Good," she said firmly. "Not that I want to see her go—I actually kind of wanted to meet her—but I'd rather see her safe than have tea and crumpets."
"I know what you mean."
"And that answers the third question I had—'how's Fran?'"
"Amazingly enough, pretty cool about the whole thing. Of course, she comes from Hollywood—she may be faking it."
"Me? I'd be scared shitless." Lily blew out a sigh. "Well, better haul ass or I'll be marked tardy. I'll check with you later, okay?"
"Okay. Drive safely!"
"Always do."
Scared shitless. I hung up the receiver. Yeah… that puts it about right.
/ / /
Google Maps plots the path to the Millennia at 14 minutes. Google has never driven in DC traffic. I know that, on a good day, it's 25 minutes. I hit a couple of surprise stretches of clear traffic and hit 18 when I got close. Driving in DC is talent—and luck.
I was negotiating the 'this is a one way street this direction, but its counterpart is one way that direction and you can't get there from here!' fun that anyone who drives in DC understands and figured it was close enough to give Fran her 'Eagle is landing' warning call. She answered on the third ring, her "Hello!" a trifle breathless.
"Am I too early? You sound like you just got there."
"No, no, I was just trying to catch the bellman. He took all my junk downstairs so we don't have to schlep it when you get here, I just noticed he missed a bag and didn't catch him at the elevator in time. It's no biggie, we can take it downstairs when you get here. I just—oh, hang on, maybe he noticed the count was off. Someone's at the door."
I listened to her clatter the phone on the table, then a faint, "Hello? I'm sorry, do I—" and a noise I desperately didn't want to recognize. A sharp bang! like a car backfiring.
And what the hell kind of car is in the living room of a penthouse suite?
Even as I shrieked, "FRAN!" (making the taxi driver parked by the side of the road turn and stare) I knew what that ugly noise was: a gunshot.
A loud cry of shock and pain. Probably Fran. Possibly me. Could be both. Sounds of a small scuffle, something—or someone—falling, hard.
"Fran!" I was shaking, crying. Behind me, people honked as I ignored the green light. "Fran, Fran, Jesus, Fran, answer me!" I screamed. "Fr—"
My cell phone went silent as someone hung up the receiver. I stared at the dashboard mount, at the tiny black screen:
CALL ENDED
01:04 MIN/SEC
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